FRANKS FOR THE MEMORIES
Here’s to the humble hot dog. Although it’s made of meat products we’d rather not think about, this little guy has long been a favorite at family and church outings, ball games, county fairs and amusement parks.
The hot dog and I go ‘way back. One of my favorite memories is of my brothers and me waiting for the huckster wagon. Every week during the summer we watched it clatter over the dusty road and stop in front of our Parke County farm home. Like a Jiffy Mart on wheels, it carried an array of canned goods, bakery items and meats. Mother had chickens and eggs ready to trade for groceries—and got dogs topped our list. No sooner had the huckster wagon left than we coaxed Mother into fixing hot dogs for lunch.
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HEIGHT OF INSULT
I don't want to bore you with the health complaints of a 60-year-old. (When I became a sexagenarian, my wife thought Saturday nights were finally about to become more than dinner and a movie.) But my story begins with a medical scare and a series of doctor appointments. So many, in fact, that the phlebotomist at my internist's office started referring to me as "not you again," which is not the kind of greeting I was looking for at a lipid lab.
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Searching for the Sun
All of the TV stations promised a sunny morning today and a welcome respite from the bitter cold temperatures and biting wind that plagued us recently in Indiana. The forecasters were right about the temperature because it is a very warm day in January but alas, the skies are gray and gloomy. My commune with nature today will be going for a walk before the rain comes and watching the birds as they come to feast at our feeder.
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